If is no wonder, Antonietta. I am certain you will be unsettled for some time to come, and rightly so.
Byron once more bent over Paul. Her cousin. A betrayer who might be plotting to take Antonietta’s life. For a moment the urge to crash him beneath the strength of his hands rose up and nearly overwhelmed him. He bent closer, his incisors lengthening as he neared the pulse beating strongly in the neck. If he took Paul’s blood, it would be easy enough to read his mind.
Byron!
Antonietta’s voice was sharp and frightened.
I have a terrible feeling you are going to hurt my cousin. Promise me you aren’t.
Byron closed his eyes, took a deep, calming breath to settle the demons roaring for release. There was too close of a connection. She would know. She would feel him.
Your imagination is running away with you, Antonietta. Why is it you always call me Antonietta? Everyone else calls me Toni.
Byron concentrated on the sound of relief in her voice. Antonietta, his lifeline to sanity and control, when his emotions were as powerful as the raging sea.
Your family calls you Toni. Everyone else calls you Signorina Scarletti, a title of great respect. That does not tell me why you won’t call me Toni. Antonietta is your name, and it is beautiful.
He said it simply, with no embellishment.
Antonietta allowed her lashes to drift down. She was tired, and the steady rhythm of the rain was making her sleepy. Byron didn’t say anything particularly romantic or brilliant, not even poetic, but she thought of it that way.
Your voice is hypnotic. I could listen to you forever. That is a good thing. It is nice to know we are making progress. Well, I don’t know why I’m suddenly telling you. I knew it the first time I heard your voice. I could just sit and listen to you forever. And after you leave, I hear the music playing in my head and through my body, and I know it’s your music. It belongs to you more than it belongs to me. That is the nicest compliment anyone has ever given me.
Byron left Paul’s room and made his way to the third floor where Franco Scarletti resided with his wife and two children.
I have decided you need a dog, Antonietta.
Antonietta burst out laughing.
Only you would think I need a dog. I’m blind. How would I care for a dog? And don’t suggest a Seeing Eye dog. I don’t know the first thing about animals. They’ve always shied away from me.
He could hear the interest in her voice in spite of herself, and he smiled.
You have not met the right dog. The animal world is unique and astonishing. The right dog is an invaluable companion. They can be devoted and loyal. The right dog picks you, bonds with you, and works with you. What kind of dog do you suggest is right for me?
Byron bent over the little girl sleeping so innocently and peacefully in her bed. The thought of an intruder harming the child had a snarl rising in his throat. The scent of the wild cat was strong in the room. Once Byron determined mere were no drugs or poison in her system, he examined the windows for points of entry. Someone could have rappelled from the battlements above. Or a cat might have leapt from the battlements to an open window. He could find nothing to indicate entry in either child’s room. He moved to the parents’ room, taking the precaution of becoming unseen to the human eye.
The borzoi, of course. They are renowned hunters, and the breed has stayed true throughout centuries. They have been owned by royalty and certainly would be at home here in the palazzo.
The borzois hunted wolf packs. Once, as a young Carpathian, not quite yet in full power, practicing his shape-shifting with Jacques, his best friend, two borzois had spotted them as they shifted to wolves in a field. The borzois were swift and silent hunters, running them down relentlessly. Neither were very fast at shifting at the time, and they barely made it to the trees, managing to clumsily shift shape and scramble for the high branches. Jacques had nearly fallen out of the tree laughing. It had taken them both several minutes to slow their heartbeats and connect with the borzois. Byron had a high respect for the animals ever since that time. They had the heart of a lion and the gentle nature of a lamb.
He had never seen an animal quite like the borzois and thought Queen Victoria very smart for wanting the creatures in her royal palace. It saddened him immensely when there was a wholesale slaughter of the intelligent, lethal, though gentle animals when the peasants rose up to destroy anything that could possibly have the mark of royalty. Perhaps he identified with them, as his species was hunted and they, too, could be both lethal and gentle. Byron didn’t know the reason, but the borzois had always remained in his mind. More than anything, he wanted Antonietta to experience the bonding and loyalty as well as receive the protection of such a fine animal.
He couldn’t very well tell her his own history with the borzois, so he chose another.
I saw a male one time protect its owner from everyone simply because she had an injured foot. He moved in close when she was limping, took her weight while they walked, and refused to leave her side the entire day, even giving up a hunt, which they are born and bred for. Hunting is in their bones, yet his devotion to his companion came first. They are extraordinary animals, and I do not say that lightly. Do you own dogs? If I did, I would own borzois. I travel too much, and it would be unfair to the dog but if I ever am lucky enough to call a place home, I will have several.
Franco Scarletti was turned toward his wife, one arm flung around her as if to hold her to him. Marita, his wife, faced away from him and even in her sleep looked unhappy. The air in the room was cold and Byron found the open window immediately. In spite of the wind, he could still scent the cat. It had visited Franco and Marita as well as the others.
With a soft, threatening growl, Byron made his way to Tasha’s suite of rooms. She had the wing encompassing the dreaded tower where it was said a Scarletti male had strangled his wife and beat her lover to death. All of Tasha’s rooms reeked of cat. The animal had spent some time in her wing of the palazzo. Like Franco and Marita and their children, Tasha showed no signs of either poison or drugs in her system.
The kitchen and the chef were next. The cat’s stench invaded his lungs, clung to every part of the chef’s private quarters and in the kitchen.
Antonietta?
She was drowsy, and for some reason he found that more sensual than ever. He pictured her lying in bed, waiting for him. Her body already hot and wet and hungry for his. A soft groan escaped. Antonietta might flirt with him from a distance, but she had always remained aloof from him, even during their many quiet talks together. She didn’t flirt often with men, which was a good thing, given that he found he had a jealous streak.
I’m still awake, thinking about having a dog. I don’t know if I could care for it properly, but it would be nice not to feel so alone all the time. Yes, it would.
His answer was heartfelt and came directly from his soul. He was glad she was awake. He still had much to do. The body couldn’t stay on the cliffs. Don Giovanni was right. It wouldn’t do to give the authorities too much to think about. Yet Byron wanted to see Antonietta. He needed to see Antonietta. To touch her. To feel her warm skin beneath his fingers. To know she was alive and well.
“How did you get in here?” Antonietta wouldn’t scream, although he had startled her from her sleep. It had always seemed a useless, pitiful reaction to an intruder. In any case, she knew exactly who was sitting on the end of her bed. She was more concerned that she had no dark glasses to hide her hideous scars and that the thick rope of hair was a mess from squirming restlessly. Waiting. Hoping he would come to her to tell her of her grandfather’s condition. Certain that he wouldn’t. It was one thing to carry on a long-distance conversation with him, flirtatious or not, and something altogether different to have him solid and real in her bedroom. Alone in her bedroom. Now that he was really there, her white lace gown seemed a ridiculous choice. She didn’t want him to think she wore it on the chance that he would come to her, although of course, she had. She would not search for her robe and cover up the fine lace, drawing more attention to her lack of attire.